Screaming For You
by Merrybeans
Summary: Set in New Hope. What's it like to watch the one you love go out to fight? And how can Neal deal with these nightmares that haunt him?


_A/N: Set in New Hope, sometime shortly after _Lady Knight_. Could be a spin-off from _Shadowed Passions_. One-shot._

Disclaimer: I do not own anything you recognise as Tamora Pierce's.

Dedication: For Ana.

**Screaming For You.**

She handed him his helm, watched him tug it on. She didn't like how much of his face it left exposed. He took his lance next, then placed one gauntlet-covered hand on her elbow. His eyes stared deep into hers.

'Get yourself inside.' He pivoted, mounting his waiting Mageswhisper. There was nothing else to say.

She watched him join the waiting men. The gates opened just enough to allow two riders through at a time. He led them out.

She suddenly hated those gates. They opened for him, but they were like prison gates for her. The four walls around her- they _terrified_ her, in these moments. She wanted to scream for him.

Glancing to her left, she saw Tobe waiting in the shadow of a building. He came forward at the look on her face, handing her the shirt. She slipped it on, scant protection with padded jerkin and chain mail. The boy passed her the helm next; just as she had passed Neal's his.

Nodding to Tobe, she took the glaive and headed up to the wall. Her skirts swished as she walked quickly to a space. Standing above the gate, she felt the walkway beneath her feet tremble a little as the door clunked into place again.

Steeling herself, she glanced his way. He was in the front, leading the group of men at a steady gallop towards the Scanrans on one side of New Hope.

She turned away. How would she concentrate if her mind was on Neal? She needed her mind to be on _her_, if she and those around her were to survive. Someone handed her a bow and a small quiver of arrows and she took them with a nod of thanks. Her mind still screamed for him.

The bow wasn't the tall type she was used to, but she could still use it. She propped the _naginata_ against the wall where she could grasp it quickly and easily. Her mind was falling away from her as she placed an arrow on the string.

It wasn't the battle she was scared of; oh no, not at all. The fight she could deal with (though her stomach might reject her lunch afterwards). These people were attacking her and her friends- and _him_, Neal. She had no trouble standing to fight them.

What she couldn't deal with was him going out there to face them. She wanted him safe, inside. She screamed for him, her heart shook like a leaf in the wind. It wasn't _fair_.

Every time New Hope was attacked, this happened. She couldn't stand him going out to face the enemy, it nearly drove her wild. And as she couldn't go out _with_ him, she took her post on the wall. From her vantage point she could see whatever happened on those grassy plains in front of the refugee centre.

Gods be her witness, if anything happened to him, she would be tempted to take one step too many. She was sure the sensation of falling from the wall would be almost like flying, something that had intrigued her from childhood, but she didn't like the stones that lay around the base of the wall. She'd rather fall to grass that swayed in the wind, or even mud. The silent rocks made it falling with broken wings.

But she had the feeling that the gates to the Black Lord's realm would stay shut to her, just like those of New Hope, if she jumped. She would spend eternity reaching for him, screaming for him, falling for him.

She shot, the adrenaline like fire in her veins. The arrow hit; the man went down, screaming. She fought the urge to search for _him_. Her trembling fingers clasped at the next bolt. Sweat broke out on her brow; inside, she was crawling on her hands and knees, reaching for him.

Oh, she _hated_ these four walls, this prison. She would give anything to be there by his side, to die by his side. Anything rather than have these broken wings, inside this prison, standing on this ledge. _Screaming_ for him.

She let the string go, the arrow wiggled through the air and dropped. She nearly cursed. She hadn't even pulled the bowstring taught enough. She took a deep breath as steadier fingers took the next arrow. No more mistakes.

She put him out of her mind. He had trained eight years; he could handle himself. She had to handle _herself_. It didn't matter if she was on the wall or on the frontline, she had to keep her head and keep her life. Someday, somehow, all this would be over and he'd make it right. They'd marry and live happily, and she wouldn't have to scream for him anymore; she wouldn't have to crawl to him; she wouldn't be stuck in this gods-forsaken _prison_, iron bars killing all her soul.

It looked like this was going to be an easier battle than they had thought. She shot repeatedly, her aim improving, her arms not even tiring. Now, nearly every bolt hit their man, if not killing him.

_If I'd had my bow, I would have got every maggot-filled Scanran in the throat. I would have shown you what I can really be, Neal. I'm terrified of being trapped in here, on this little ledge, when you're out _there_; but you're just as terrified of me seeing your nightmares first-hand, I know you are._

Each time she watched those gates close behind him she felt like part of her died, like she needed saving. She wouldn't be saved until he came back, and then all this would fade.

The adrenaline-fire began to turn to the burn of over-used muscles. She needed to practice this longbow more.

There was a horn call and she jumped, surprised. The last of the Scanrans on her side of New Hope shrieked his death. They had all been killed by the archers before they could even get near enough to do damage. Now she turned, surveying Neal and his group of mounted fighters. They had won their battle too, and were returning to the fort.

_Hurry, hurry, save me, I'm falling._

Where was he, where was he?

_Come, please, I'm calling. I'm screaming for you._

They rode up to the gates and were ushered in. She leaned over the wall, desperate to see him. Her eyes scattered over the other men, blanking them out. A man at the back removed his helm, shaking his sweat-soaked hair out. He looked up at the wall, emerald eyes stark against his skin.

_It looks like he's used my rice paints_.

'Yuki,' he breathed, a scowl forming. 'I've told you before to _stay indoors_ when they come.'

'Well,' said a new voice behind Yuki, 'I'm in charge here and I say Yuki fights on the walls. My orders go above yours, Neal.'

'And I thought you were my friend,' Neal grumbled, dismounting in a muddle of adrenaline-filled limbs.

Yuki sent Kel a grateful, heart-filled smile. She knew the other woman understood.

--

Later that night, Yuki rubbed bruise balm into the deep aching in Neal's shoulder. The skin was mottled blue, purple, green, and yellow from where his armour had dented. It had saved his shoulder from being completely run through.

Neal hissed a little. The bruise was as deep set as his bones, and the balm was _cold_.

Yuki was completely composed now. The prison was now a home, the immobilised gates it's welcoming threshold. Gone were the broken wings, the screaming, the crawling, and the thoughts of extra archery lessons.

'I wish you wouldn't Yuki.'

She kept her eyes on the fading colours.

'You're not even really supposed to be here. We're lucky to be together, simply because I got posted at a refugee camp. And you're here to assist with healing, and to use your Gift in helping the crops grow. You're _not_ supposed to be fighting.'

Finished, she replaced the pot of bruise balm and wiped her hands clean. She tried to ignore how he was so clearly quivering. Placing her hands on his knees, she leaned in and kissed his forehead.

'Goodnight, Neal. Sleep well.'

'Yuki-!' He grabbed her wrist as she turned to go. She looked at him, knowing what was coming; he swallowed. 'Stay with me? Please?'

'Neal, they will talk. We are not married.'

'Please.' It was a whisper. His whole body shook. 'I don't- the-' He couldn't finish. He couldn't even look up from the floor.

She slipped her feet out of her slippers. Quickly her experienced fingers removed her outer kimono, draping it over his chair on top of his discarded sweaty shirt.

Gently, slowly, she unwound his fingers. He was clutching the edge of the bed _so_ tight. Putting her hands on his cheeks, she turned his face up and pressed a light kiss to his lips. His eyes were bright with unshed tears.

She helped him into the bed in just his breeches, then slipped in with him. She knew she would be hot tonight, against his skin, with a kimono and undergarments on but at least she looked decent if someone found them.

She was immediately drawn into the embrace of his jelly-like arms and she tried to stretch her arms around him too. Pressing her cheek to his chest, she wished her Gift allowed her to calm minds. Still, she sent him positive thoughts as he trembled.

She wondered if battle did this to other men. Did Keladry have these nightmares? Did sleep come in splinters, fractured by haunted faces? Yuki knew it did for Neal every night after he went into battle- ever since he had seen the kraken.

He could ride out and face the men, he could heal the wounds they inflicted, but when the shadows lengthened, that was when his wings would break. He could soar into battle on Mageswhisper, but alone, in the night, the battles would haunt him until he was crawling in the darkest corners of his mind, blocked by iron bars.

The nightmares were a prison he couldn't escape on his own. She knew then he was screaming for her. _Save me, save me. If it's worth it, save me._

She hugged him tighter. His breathing was finally beginning to calm as he drifted to sleep. He was scared to sleep now, after he'd been in a skirmish. At least with her there, the nightmares were less frequent, and she could comfort him when they woke him. She pressed a kiss to his bare chest, hoping it penetrated into his dreams.

Remembering something, she propped herself up on one elbow so she could see and flicked her fingers. Turquoise light flashed, once, twice. The blot on the door slid home, the candle sizzled out.

There was no going back now.

--


End file.
